Absolute Zero
by phriendly11
Summary: At Exactly 9:05 the world as we know it will end. (chapter 2)
1. take to the sky

: absolute zero :

by: hillary (aliasfanfiction@hotmail.com) / http://sop.diary-x.com/

rated: **R (at ff.net) –this is a HARD R… please do not read unless you are of suitable age and maturity – language. violence. adult situations**

classification: post-rambaldi destruction story.

genre: angst. angst…oh, it's a big ol' sea of endless angst

spoilers: all through season one INCLUDING "Almost 30 Years"

disclaimer: Hi JJ. I'd love to be a part of the ALIAS staff so that I uh, could CLAIM an itty bit of ownership. Since we both know that's impossible…I'm poor and own nothing.

distribution: CM, most assuredly. All else, please ask

note: additional notes at end. feedback always appreciated, negative or positive, please be sure to tell me what you thought.

Absolute Zero : one: take to the sky 

: Nevada: outside of Carson City; Labor Day - September, 2004:

Sydney Bristow looks at herself in the mirror, face blanched white and small in the glass, water splotches marring her reflection behind the smeared surface.

Thirty is an unkind year.  She knew it would be, all along, but refuses to think about it; instead focusing on the obvious facts that piled up around her and made themselves increasingly evident, more and more difficult for her to fully comprehend. Difficult used to be her forte; now it made her feel old. Old and she is only thirty. Only thirty, but it feels like she's been going a million years. The lines around her eyes, spiraling outwards –although still nearly miniscule - give silent testimony to the validity of this fact. 

Three hours ago she'd sat in a barber's chair, instructed the woman behind it with bright red hair and burgundy lipstick to cut off every inch of her mid-length chestnut hair. And color, she requested color; lots of it. She'd wanted to leave the salon looking like a different person, unable to recognize herself when she got out of that chair. Peering at the face that stares back at her she finds that the stylist has been successful in obeying her requests, her hair now a million lengths, twiggy ends sticking out around her face. And red: honey gold swirls meet copper in the dull florescent light.

Outside the bathroom door, the gentle knocking of another person distracts her from the contemplation of age and haircuts.

"Miss? Miss? Are you almost done in there?"

Almost done. Strange to think that in another twelve hours this will not even bother her anymore.

*

:Las Vegas:

Seven pm and the strip is swarming with vacationers. Heat swells off the pavement even after sunset, making the night irradiated with desert warmth. She walks with purpose, long black dress sliding rhythmically against her thighs. 

The Monte Carlo is her destination, blackjack table four, where a man sits and drinks a bourbon and water, his expression one of mild disinterest.

"You made it." he says with a kindness that doesn't reach his eyes. Cold fingers find her collarbone, tracing an imaginary angle. His fingers, the haunting presence of an all-too familiar ghost, makes her repress an urge to close her eyes and shudder from the aching misery his touch brings. Familiar, and yet incessantly damning, she remains stock still from the contact, afraid to move from his hand but more troubled when she feels the slow wash of warmth his presence always seems to bring her.

"I love it when you wear pearls," his voice is low, deceptively soft, but sharp along the edges that only she can hear. His eyes silently survey her attire, the long, shape-hugging dress, her hair curling around her face. Index finger still on the necklace, right beneath her throbbing pulse, he offers a cool smile before pulling his hand away from the opaque beads to grab his glass. Throwing back the tumbler and swallowing, his Adams apple jutting up and down erratically, he wordlessly offers her his chair.

"My wife." He announces to the dealer. Sydney bristles from the casual nature of his tone in association to the title; the flat, emotionless declaration swallowed in the surrounding din. Unseeing, Sydney declines his offer to be seated and instead focuses momentarily on the uninterested dealer behind the table, the woman's grey-green eyes flashing with self-contained boredom as she shuffles the deck in her hands. 

"Darling, I much prefer Roulette. You know that." The plaintive note Sydney's voice is fabricated, almost pitched, as well as the accompanying pout on her lips. She places her hand on his shoulder, feeling the fabric of his shirt beneath her fingers as well as the tensing of his muscles. They meet eyes and hold the gaze. 

"Roulette is a very risky game, Julia." He pronounces the name beautifully, making it sound exotic, less plain.  
  


"David." She purrs, bringing her mouth close to his ear, her lips nearly touching the tip of his lobe. "Everything is set" she murmurs, and then pulls away. "I like to take risks."

Sydney's eyes fall on the dealer, the casino employees eyes suddenly riveted to the couple before her, no doubt entranced by his hand on her bare back, the way she slides into his space and begs for his compliance. Fiddling with the cards in her hands, she watches them with unconcealed interest. To Sydney's desensitized eyes the girl is plain; dishwater blonde hair falling against her shoulders. The woman probably finds them some form of occupational entertainment, one of the small highlights of her hour at table four.

"Sir, would you like to play another hand?" She enquires with a thin and reedy voice, albeit polite. It makes Sydney draw away from his warmth and re-fix her eyes on an elderly woman pumping nickels into a slot machine, her face devoid of emotion as she plops in one coin after another in a sort of fitful, mindless trance.

Beyond them there is the noise of the casino, raised voices laughing, pings of coins in the metal trays and the occasional squeal of a lucky winner. Slot machines jangle harmoniously around them, met with the low undercurrent of ice against glass as patrons gulp down beverages.

A waitress appears, asks if he would like another Bourbon. He shakes his head.

"Miss?" 

"I'd love a martini. Gin. Very dry, up, with a twist." A martini fits Julia, she thinks, seems appropriate for a night like tonight, unknowing of what will come. She turns to him briefly.

"Play another hand, David. We have plenty of time."

He raises a finger to the dealer and a cards slide over the felt - green of the table, into his hand. One, two.

*

Labor Day weekend is one of the busiest weekends for Las Vegas casinos. Within the three-day holiday, over three million people will hit the casinos on and around the strip. This day has been long prearranged, marked on some ancient calendar as the day that the shit hit will the fan.

At nine past five-no sooner, no later; watches set to Greenwich Mean Time and definitely checked and rechecked a million times, the world as it is currently is, from Vegas to Paris, will be forever altered. Indefinitely.

Sydney has another martini. She stares into the busy lobby of the Bellagio (the luck had run dry at the Monte Carlo) and watches as travelers come to the front desk in Gucci suits and fine leather shoes imported from Italy.

The blown glass ceiling above her is gorgeous, the focal point of the less than esteemed guests who tentatively enter from the revolving doors at the front of the hotel. The people that don't belong stick out like sore thumbs: sight seers with bad haircuts, scuffed shoes, an expression of wonder written on their sad little faces as they marvel over all the gilt and glitter that exists in these mega hotels, these little havens of sin and money and the sweat of the wealthy. They lap it up like dogs, drinking in the elegance that they dream about at night in their tiny little beds at the Econolodge down the street. It's the nature of things in this world, and that makes it all so unfortunate.

Take away what the dreamers love best, and what are they left with to love?

She leaves the lobby at eight-fifteen, after twenty minutes and still no sign of him. It had been decided that she leave him at the Monte Carlo, take a walk to the Luxor and photograph the Sphinx, and then meet up at the Botanical Gardens inside the Bellagio at eight thirty. According to the diamond encrusted watch on her wrist he still has a few minutes left. 

Finishing off her drink, she enters the lush surroundings of the garden, the wafting scent of hibiscus and Stargazer Lilies, of roses in topiaries. Classical music pipes overhead- Notturno, one of the countless renditions by a now exanimate composer, she thinks, and looks at the foliage with a less than astute eye.

He's silent behind her, but she feels it when he arrives. Can hear him breathing in the background, knows his body heat from a mile away. While that should strike her as odd, or even a bit disconcerting in it's intimacy, it doesn't. Her knowledge of him stems from something within herself, as though the nuances of his biology have become somehow ingrained within her, creating some inner radar that she no longer struggles with in trying to disengage; finding it both impossible to ignore and pointless to deny.

"Hello, David" She says, without turning.

"Hello, Julia" Replying, he steps beside her and from her peripheral vision she watches as he fingers a rose. 

"The rules say not to touch the display, darling."

"Really?" He gives her a cocky smile. "I am not a large fan of rules."

"I've noticed that." Her tone is intentionally demure. Throngs of people pass between them, cooing over the cunning arrangements and the spray of color in late summer. Simultaneously, she resents and is drawn to them, their disenchanted voices echoing around her as they unknowingly take advantage of all the conveniences all around them in blatant proliferation.

"It's still an oven out there," A woman says as she passes "I'm so thankful for Bellagio's air system, you know?"

"People" He hisses as the complaining tourist walks by. "It's amazing all the things you can learn to take for granted."

"It is." Sydney dares a glance in his direction, sees his expression as one of wistful anger, and reaffixes her gaze on the plant in front of her.

"Everything ready, then?" She manages to ask after a long moment, swallowing the lump in her throat that has been increasingly rising since they left Carson city at noon. Dread, insidious and calculated, runs rampant within her. 

"Yes." Another look in his direction and she finds that he is watching her, now, eyes locked  on the space between her shoulder and neck. Her eyes remain fixed on him, the way his eyes flutter and look away, her forwardness startling him. This proximity lends to the knowledge that he finds her nearness disconcerting, made evident by the slight rush of color along his cheekbones and his eyes as they flitter back and forth.  

It's eight- forty . Way past time to go. 

*

In truth, neither knows exactly what will happen tonight at five past nine on Labor Day, a mere twenty-five minutes after they left the confines of the botanical garden. It's about following orders, even blindly, and not asking where the pieces will fall after it's all over. Thing is, she didn't think either one of them even want to know anymore. Three years spent traipsing all across the planet in search of bits and pieces of nothing has a way of desensitizing a person. It has a way of making you sincerely not want to care anymore.

But the both of them know that tonight is a very big night. Big as in the irreversible sense of the word, big as in life-changing, forever-altering. They know that it is the one time to not ask questions because they both fear the sheer enormity of the answer.

Standing in the stall of the casino's bathroom, pulling off the form-fitting dress and pulling on a functional black turtleneck, flight jacket and pants, she stumbles over her heels and tugs on her boots. The shortness of her hair makes the effort easier than it would have been in the past, and as she shuts the stall door behind her, slinging on her pack, she catches a brief glance of herself in the bathroom mirror. She forgot to take off the pearls, and she's out of time to undo the complicated clasp. Outside the restroom, she stalks though the lobby, avoiding the throngs of people and keeping up with the retreating form of her partner. The plan outside the doors is to start running, but that became complicated in the wake of onlookers that have crowded around the evening fountain display set to music. They disentangle themselves from the crowd and make their way to the back-lots of the casinos, running over a deserted parking lot and the heliport over a half mile away.

Test runs have proven that they can make it in ten if they fly fast, and each time they tried they'd only gotten faster, starting up the engine and lifting effortlessly into the night, flying over the desert sky with the noisy machine hum of the huey's propellers.

They are a minute behind schedule when she pulls open the heavy metal door and clambers inside, throwing on a seat belt and hunkering into the stiff cushions behind her. He climbs in and pulls on a helmet, gets clearance for takeoff and within another minute they are flying, high above Las Vegas. She ventures a look at him, face focused on the task ahead, complexion glowing green in the helicopters instrument panel light.

The Canyon is over seventy miles from here, and they only have eight and a half minutes to get there. Neither knows what will happen if they didn't make it, but with the intel that they did have, it's fairly evident that if they fail to reach their destination then the two of them will be screwed. 

"You have the sat com phone?" His voice comes clear over the headset, the microphone jammed in her ear. It rattles against her eardrum: his tone, the roar of the engines, the choppy sound of air beside the copter. 

"I have it." She affirms, grabbing her pack.

"Can you make it in six minutes?" She asks with trepidation, his face partially concealed in shadows across from her, his hands a blur on the controls.

"I'm flying fast. I think I might be able to make it, but when we land we are going to have to haul ass."

The night outside the heavy windows is endless black, the dot of white to the left the last reminder of Vegas as they soar over the land below, lost in the inky dark. She can't see stars but still looks for them. Beneath them the land is changing, mountains surrounding the Hoover Dam, loping peaks and valleys in the still dark below as they approach the canyon.

In a flash they are there, helicopter descending. "Got everything?" He yells over the sound of motors and wind.

She gives a thumbs up. Last thing she checks is the watch on her wrist. They have less than a minute.

"Leave the engine running." She yells over the noise, and he nods back at her. Each grab a pack before jumping out of the huey and running blindly in the dark.

"Here, here," he shouts. 

There is real fear, now; the fear of uncertainty and knowing time is up. He presses her into an ancient wall and she collapses into the soft dirt of the canyon floor, the Colorado river close enough behind them to make a rushing gurgle, offset by the whirling of the chopper in the distance.

"Its 9:05" Shouts it, looking up at him, finding his expression to be pained. "Nothing's happening…"

As soon as she speaks the air around them fills with a reverberating, static crackle that devours all the sound between them. It's a low, primal vibration and shakes from the walls of sandstone, vibrating, ringing in her ears and rendering her temporarily deaf. Every natural noise is sucked into this vortex of endless clatter, the world rumbles from the inside out, leaving the tips of her fingers, feet and ears resonating the unearthly clamor. 

There is silence. The helicopter is no longer audible. It's as though everything froze and then from a faraway place there is the water of the river and his voice, his voice as he touches her shoulders.

"Sydney, Sydney." He is saying her name, she realizes, and looks up at him dumbly.

"Are we okay? Are you okay?" She stands on unsteady legs and looks into his moss-green eyes.

Hands on each side of her face, he leans into her. "Michael?" She manages, holding her breath for a moment before he pulls away from her quickly. "Are you okay?"

"Yes." He replies curtly and moves from her, immediate dislocation from her realm, his feet leaving impressions in the soft red dirt of crushed sandstone and fossilized plants.

Beyond him, she can see the helicopter, still and silent.

*

end chapter one. 

to be continued, of course…

notes: special thanks to…JESS: who always betas with mad skill even when she is GRE hell and the general tragedy that is known as the SENIOR YEAR OF COLLEGE…and to FRED, for keeping me crazy, bringing on the insanity and teaching me that COLOURS are what make the world a better place—love you both

feedback is always appreciated. Expect the next chapter within the next week- 10 days or so.

this chapter title "Take to The Sky" is from the Tori Amos song of the same name.


	2. sandstone

:absolute Zero: sandstone:

Notes, comments etc. in Chapter 1.

Chapter Two: Sandstone

"I have long considered it one of God's greatest mercies that the future is hidden from us. If it were not, life would surely be unbearable" –Eugene Forsey

8:47 pm

Arizona

For a long time they sit in silence, the cool of the evening wrapping around them as they gaze up at the stars. The sky is unmarred by clouds, the universe above a world of swirls and dashes, of tiny pinpricks of light countless miles beyond them.

"In the morning," speaking slowly, mere decibels over the crackle of the fire, she tilts her head in his direction to catch the rest of his words, "we'll hike out of here."

In college, she and Francie had taken a trip out to the canyon, in late December, the air almost crisp and right around sixty degrees. They'd hiked down to the river in an afternoon and remembered that the return trek the following morning had been nothing short of grueling. It's a straight pitch to the top on winding corners and a foot and a half of walking room. Her calves had ached for days following that first visit, and now, ten years later, she hopes she's still in shape enough to make it up in one piece.

She watches him in the moonlight, his brown-blonde hair shining as he walks over to the helicopter. Its navigational system is shot; turning the key in the ignition does nothing. The engine makes a loud click that resounds in the too -quiet night. He turns, face grim, and nods at her curtly.

"I think that whatever it was worked." He announces stoically, tone flat and unemotional.

Finding an alcove, she sits with her knees drawn to her body. This is the nature of their relationship, where in privacy they speak in clipped sentences and avert their eyes from the other. Neither wants to get too close. 

He throws down a sleeping bag and opens his canteen, taking a leisurely gulp. More than 12 feet away and she can still see the muscles work in his neck, his arms, the upturn of his shoulders. The moon is bright and full and serves as diminished light, illuminating everything, granting shadows on the still ground.

Unmoving, she watches him, and can't stop the swell of thoughts that come to her mind unbidden. Remembers a night that felt like an eternity ago, the momentary weakness; the slide of his hand on her body and his breath hot on her neck, and oh god…

"Sydney." He interrupts the memory, comes closer, hands closed around a rectangle in the dark. "Call her."

His eyes are frigid when she meets them, green glass coolly glowing in the darkness, his lips drawn in a line. It makes her shiver, the distance between them, the knowing that she- and she alone- placed it there.

"Okay." She takes the phone from his fingers without touching him. Smiles without much trace of beguile as he walks away, kicking up the dust as he walks. She notices dully that both of their pant legs are coated, streaming red lines of sand and dirt.

Her fingers shake when she dials, matching the tremor in her stomach that goes outward, crawling up her neck, into her shoulders, everything tensing as the line pulses and then-

"Yes," at the opposite end. She shivers.

"We did it." She tells her, finds her voice weak and clears her throat. "It's done."

"I know." Her mother sounds so delighted, her excitement uncontained even across the multitudes of distance between them.

"So it worked, then?" Ventures a question. Knows the delay that will come, the placating silence that her mother will offer. Typical, and yet this time, it's not enough.

"It worked." The reply is terse.

"If you knew that already then why did you make me call?" Sydney bites off the words, emboldened by the miles separating them. 

Her mother gives a small chuckle, no doubt serving as a patronizing acknowledgement of her daughter's bitter tongue. "So I could be the first to admonish you if your efforts proved fruitless."

Frustration filling her, she drags a hand through the short crop of hair. The lack of weight is still disconcerting, the ragged ends scrape against her fingers. Taking a deep breath, she attempts to control her anger, knowing that the emotion is beyond useless. "Then can you at least tell me what it is, exactly, that you've had us do?"

Again, the tiny, humorless laugh. "I don't believe that the time is right. You'll know soon enough for yourself. Besides- seeing, my dear daughter, is so much more effective that the spoken word."

Sydney dares a glance at the figure opposite her, standing close enough to overhear the conversation, his face a mask of unconcealed distaste. He stands with his hands on his hips, posture indignant in the soft light of the moon. It only compounds his apparent indignation, her eyes on him. She runs an index finger over the floor of the canyon, making squiggled lines, fighting back tears.

"Fine." She says, deflated of anger and filled with a sort of self-serving pity. "I'll wait."

*

5.15.2002 : 

Taipei :

'You tell me…' she wrote in her perfect block handwriting, trying unsuccessfully to steady her shaking hands. 'What would you do in my situation?'

It seemed a simple enough plan. A gun to the side of her head and Sark; smirking as he manned the trigger, occasionally going so far as to tap the Magnum against her temple whenever she slowed her writing.

"This isn't a term paper, Ms. Bristow." he clicked back the safety and held the weapon against her ear. The cool steel tickled the burning flesh and made her tremble, but not from fear. Moreover, she shook from abhorrence for herself, for her actions. "You don't have to agonize over every nuance of grammar, every sentence. Just write."

She nodded and put the pen back to paper.

'I made a deal.' Black and white, it stared up at her. I, Sydney Bristow, of sound mind and body… 'I made a deal, that in exchange for both of our lives, we owe her…' Her, the ubiquitous "she", the mastermind behind this; her, her, her. Her mother. False placating smile and that buried Russian accent. Irina.

I know you are going to want to disagree with me, but I am asking you to trust me.' Her hand shook when she wrote "trust me". It glared up at her, a silent reprimand. Her eyes fixed to those words; as she looked down upon it as the paper became ingrained into her mind, the thick ivory parchment with miniscule flecks of lavender. It smelled like the color of the flecks, delicate, light, lavender in springtime, or from a hand lotion, slight and soft but permeating. Instantly  knew she would forever associate the fragrance with this moment, with these words. The pen suddenly felt heavy in her fingers, burned hot against her palm.

Sark stood over her, breath near her ear as he read the last written line. "Well, do go on." He encouraged, she could hear the amusement laden in his tone. Shooting a glance up at him, she scowled in contempt. 

"While I'm sure it is impossible for you to fathom, I do have a slight problem in doing this to my friend. To ask him to trust me when I have been blackmailed into compliance-"

"Interesting." He interrupted her. "I'm sure that your…friend," he slurred the word like it was something distasteful, "will appreciate the fact that you've so selflessly bargained for his life. Now, back to the task at hand."

"Please…" Is all she managed to write before he snagged the paper from beneath the pen, eyes scanning it rapidly. 

"You have lovely penmanship. Quite nice for a girl raised in the states." Folding the paper, he started to tuck it into his pocket before arching an eyebrow, "Oh my, had you wanted to sign this with little endearments? Possibly a declaration of unspoken love?"

Glaring up at him, she tapped the pen against the dull grain of the table. It would have been very nice to shove it into his jugular, but unfortunately propriety stopped her before she did.

He left her to her own silence, to staring ahead at concrete block walls that made the room even more drab and distasteful, if that was possible.  Tied to the chair, feet bound in plastic interlocking rings that were completely impossible to break without something sharp enough to cut them -she's tried, and the red rings around her ankles gave proof to the futility of her efforts. The room smelled like mildew, something dripped, and she hadn't eaten in over seventy-two hours. Hadn't slept either, finding the ache in her legs and arms made it impossible to relax for even fifteen minutes. At least the bastard had freed her hands long enough to write that letter and now to nervously await the response. Cocky fuck, she thought, a wayward strand of her thick hair falling into her eyes. She lifted a hand to wipe it away, saw the angry red gashes stare back at her, slightly scabbed over, some oozing a thin trickle of blood, sticky red that gloms on the dull formica. Nails all broken, unknown debris jammed and creeping over her cuticles; tiny, dirty slivers. Lowering her wrist, she rested her hand on the cool table gingerly, and for a moment- a tiny second, she though about laying down her head.

After all, she'd given up, hadn't she? Willingly played into Irina's little game, the one that traded her and Vaughn's life for an existence based solely on forced servitude; a type of indentured servant that could never be freed. Her mother's slave- though it felt empty to call her that, to give her a title such as "mother" when everything about the designation did nothing to belie the bankruptcy of emotion behind it. The fact that every thing about her childhood had been a lie, her small collection of facts about her mother fabricated, a mere fantasy. Unreal.

The heavy metal door creaked open and Sark's golden head filled her vision, his blue eyes emotionless, his lips curled in a smirk.

"I have delightful news. It seems your little partner has decided to comply."

*

5.16.02

3:08 P.M

Fifty-two minutes.

Their reunion was given a scheduled time, at four in the afternoon, as though assigning a date and time would make it all somewhat more tangible. More real, less sacrificial, as if they could be convinced to not mourn their loss of fragile, temperate freedom. Freedom- it had become an abstract concept, a variable that no longer fit into the equation of her life. While their freedom of choice was gone, they did remain living, a reality that was fixed and permanent. Guilt burned within her, an angry torch fueled by bitter self-hatred, she reveled—yes, reveled, in knowing that she would be seeing him in less than an hour.

The lack of time did nothing to make anything more real for her; in fact, she was unwilling to believe he was alive until she actually laid eyes upon him, touched him, accepted absolute proof that he was living. She wanted to see for herself the mechanics of his breathing, of his heartbeat, of everything that distinctly composed him. 

And then she would believe that the past three days had actually happened.

After the delicate truce was agreed upon, her mother had sent someone to bandage her wrists and ankles. The girl had looked less than twenty, with olive skin and almond-shaped eyes, eyes that were kind, sympathetic to her pain. She soaked Sydney's wounds in lukewarm, cloudy water, rubbed a salve that smelled of mint and burned the sores that her frequent attempts at escape had caused. When she was prompted to stand, the petite, dark haired woman winding a slender arm around her waist; her arms and legs had failed, and she had fallen, through the kind woman's arms and face-forward into a sharp corner of the formica table before her. Knocked unconscious, she'd awoken to find her wrists wrapped, ankles tended to in much the same manner, and a winding strip of gauze around her head.

She could only imagine how it was that she must look; bandaged, worn, no doubt bruised- for she could feel the tender, swollen places along her cheeks and chin. The area under her left eye was still sticky with blood. She was almost thankful for the lack of mirrors or windows; anything that might reveal the true state of her appearance. Head throbbing from her inadvertent injury, she stared at the wrap around her wrists, glowing back too white and stinging her eyes that throbbed with every heartbeat, every breath, every single movement she made.

The following morning they had moved her to another room in what she could only assume to be some western quadrant in her mother's vast compound. Khasinau himself had come to collect her, playing the role of the tired old man, calling her "dear" and offering her breakfast. Even though she was starving and her body in dire need of nutrients, her rebellious nature had caused her to refuse. He'd escorted her into another room with an industrial looking sink and mirror and bed, and said for her to wait.

He told her; in a soft voice that she thought he meant her to construe as soothing "You can see him in an hour."

This was a reward, she made no mistake in that simple understanding. Irina had given her a choice, a choice between two things, and she had picked the less painful for herself. Flashing to an earlier scene, she re-invented her mother, standing before her, eyes cold. The way the woman had said her name "Sydney..." like it was glass, sharp and pointing. It had cut through her, that tone. Sliced right through and made her see that the years of distance had transformed her mother into nothing more than a cruel, calculating and disdainful opponent. An enemy. 

This new room had a mirror in its southern corner, along a wall flanked by opaque windows that were impossible to see the ground beneath through. The long, rectangle glass she avoided for a little while, still afraid to look at herself. Her imagination had done a well enough job of painting the way the past few days and their concurrent events ought to have made her look, and so she perched on the edge of the bed, willing herself to have the courage to actually look. To see the marks that gave proof to her efforts, however short-lived, to break free. Rising slowly, she walked toward the glass tentatively, her figure becoming less and less blurry the closer she got - until finally she materialized, moving into blinding focus and showing her a worn woman, her hair matted, her face bruised. 

In the beginning, she had resisted. Gotten hit a half dozen times and now her face was mostly mottled-looking black and blue spots, one around her eye chasing violet with puce and yellow. The bandages were too clean, a contrast to the black of her clothes and the sore spots on her cheeks. The clothes she came to the club in she still wore, the dog collar broken when someone (she thinks it was Sark) had grabbed her from behind and caused the material to rip against her throat. It left an angry, red, haphazard mark along her skin, but everything did.

She looked terrible, and her appearance only amplified a growing fear within her that multiplied with the minutes that she imagined passing with virulent speed. In a matter of minutes, she would come face to face with him. Suddenly the prospect of reunion seemed less and less a wonderful thing as she envisioned his face, his eyes closed off and angry as he looked at her. Unforgiving. She'd sacrificed his life, she knew it, but once she could explain—

Would he believe her? Would he understand the meaning behind her actions, the trust that she had for him? The emotion? He'd risked everything when he came with her to Taipei with her, put his life on the line for her, and she repaid him by forcing him into a contract with the very monster that had killed his father. He might perceive her as selfish, preferring death to the future she bargained for him. Was it selfish that she needed him to get through this? Was it a mistake to want to beg him to agree with her, so that he would defect with her, to truly, really throw his life away for quite possibly the only greater good that was immediate and only limited to them?

She couldn't take his silence. If he refused to speak to her then it would break her, worse still if he refused to listen to her paltry explanations for her actions. He knew the ultimate bargaining chip for her had been saving his life - that had been her choice, and she had agreed to the unsmiling Irina that she would do almost anything to save him, a fact that her mother had been surprised about, labeling her immediately weak. "Loyalty." The woman spat the word like it was blasphemy, a sin. 

Systematically, in those early hours of her confinement, her mother had threatened to kill everyone, not just limited to Vaughn, but their friends. Family. Past lovers, everyone that either had ever known. Dead in a matter of days, untraceable, violent deaths. That was Irina's promise and threat, and the chilling, bleak look in her eyes confirmed that she meant what she said.

She believed Irina Derevko's threats. She believed it when she said that she had people in her employ that would not hesitate to shoot Francie Calfo in the head. Wouldn't blink when it came down to putting a bomb in her fathers car… all these deaths, and countless others- played in her mind slowly as she had silently weighed their options.

Like a snake, that woman had made her slithering demands that Sydney had no choice but to acquiesce to. 

And so she had. Nodded, tears streaming down her face, she sold her soul to the devil-their souls, for along with her own she had singularly bargained for Vaughn's life as well. 

"It's time" Khasinau interrupted her memory, jerking her eyes away from her reflection and to his worn face at the doorjamb. She couldn't move for a moment, suddenly dumbstruck with full- blown fear. 

Her feet scuffled against the concrete of the floor, a whispered sound; she somehow made it to the door. Dizzy from a mixture of adrenaline and sick anticipation, she followed the tall man in front of her, noting the lack of gray in his coal black hair, the slight stoop of his shoulders as he walked ahead of her. His shirt was untucked, some luxurious saffron yellow fabric that moved with his rail thin body as he made strides ahead of her. She knew it was ignorant to think this man weak: he had once held K -Directorate in the palm of his hands. This man, who now shuffled his feet and didn't tuck his expensive, tailored shirt into his Chinos, had been deposed, by none other than her traitorous, manipulative bitch of a mother.

The walk was not long down corridors with unmarked doors and occasional guards, clothed in green-fatigues, their faces bland, emotionless, hands wrapped around assault rifles. Their eyes followed as they past them, training on her, she felt them bore into her back as she walked, staring through the thin fabric of her gossamer shirt, peering beneath, the contrast of white skin shrouded in black and marred with countless bruises, lacing out, angry, across her back, over her ribs.

Khasinau had a key that he used to unlock the heavy door that guarded Vaughn; it opened with a creak and let in a sliver of light from the hallway behind them. She saw nothing in the black within those four walls, nothing but the shadow of herself and the man beside her. Stepping into the interior with more than a bit of caution, her eyes adjusting to the dim light, she found the figure of a person crouched in a far corner as her heart made a thundering sound, drowning out everything in it's forceful beat.

"Vaughn." Her voice sounded rusty from disuse, indescribably tired. It creaked around the edges and threatens to break, but she managed, somehow, to hold herself together. The door closed with a loud, final sound, leaving them alone in near complete darkness. She sunk to her knees in front of him; he blinked up at her, blood in his hair and the dark marks of bruises along his cheeks, his jaw, his hairline.

"Sydney." His mouth moved funny, gingerly, he spoke like he was swollen. She touched his jaw tenderly and he grimaced, but she couldn't stop the course of her fingers. Despite his bruised, broken flesh - the sound of her name on his lips, she still needed validation. Proof it was him, that this was no illusion. No trick. Real.

"What did they do to you?" Tears came to her eyes, hot and angry, but simultaneously mournful. She wanted to erase the injustices he was so undeserving of, that which she had caused him. 

The little light in this room made him a mere shadow. His finger lightly grazed over her bandages, the dark spot on her cheek. "You're hurt" He said, his voice so small, so faraway that it ripped something in her, a barrier she fought so hard to keep up in these endless hours of their confinement broken. Sobbing now, she cried openly in front of him as she noticed through water-drenched eyes that they had torn away his clothes and now all the wore was a bloody tee-shirt and ripped leather pants, his feet shoeless, his hair in a million directions. Vaughn wrapped his arms around her, shushing her in this too-quiet, pain-filled room, rocking her back and forth.

"I'm sorry," she said, over and over and over. "I'msorryI'msorryI'msorry."

*

9:52 pm- Arizona

She watches, distractedly, as the fire burns at their feet, sending spirals of smoke into the darkness beyond. He sits opposite her, arms circled around his knees, his head slightly tipped. Every so often his eyelids droop and then open up again, the glint of light in his irises visible even from across the flame and the veil of smoke.

Watching him has become her only form of communication, and there is so much that she learns in these secret conversations. He looks at her sporadically, their eyes almost meeting- never holding- before one or both of them looks down or away. She knows what he is thinking, only because she thinks the same. Or at least she wants to hope that she does. 

At one point in this entire fucked up situation, things had been different with them. At least they could speak to one another like adults, but now, it seemed that all this time between them had only bought them silence.

"Michael," she says; watches as he stiffens at the use of his first name. "Would you at least talk to me?"

"No." He says quite evenly, more so with buried menace. She cringes at his tone, frowns at its callous nature.

"Please…" Knowing he hates it when she uses a placating tone. He's gotten so far away from her, and tonight she feels so empty. So clueless in the light of everything that had happened to the two of them in the past three years, and she needs him beside her. He doesn't move, makes eye contact- fleeting, but makes it all the same.

"I said no, Sydney. You bought your solitude. Now live with it." Standing, he brushes off a torrent of dirt and steps away from the fire, his back disappearing into the night. 

Sydney brushes away tears that she blames on a shift of the wind and an upstream of smoke.

*

to be continued…in 7-10 days.

a/n: again thanks to jess and fred, who actually make this piece a readable, coherent entity rather than just words on paper, jumbled and confused in tense.

I am not sure if the word "gloms" is actually a word, but as far as I am concerned, if only for today, it is.

Feedback is always appreciated (aliasfanfiction@hotmail.com)


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